Eight hours', ten hours', twelve hours' shift;— Oh, it's long and long the day is! Up before light, and home in the night, That is our share in the desperate fight;— And it's long and long the day is! Backs and arms and heads that ache, Eyes over-tired and legs that shake, And hearts full nigh to burst and break;— Oh, it's long and long the day is! Week in, week out, not a second to spare, But though it should kill us we'll do our share, For the sake of the lads, who have gone out there For the sake of us others, to do and dare;— But it's long and long the day is!
"Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"
And thousands of wheels a-spinning,—
Spinning Death for the men of wrath,
Spinning Death for the broken troth,
—And Life, and a New Beginning.
Was there ever, since ever the world was made,
Such a horrible trade for a peace-loving maid,
And such wonderful, terrible spinning?
Oh, it's dreary work and it's weary work,
But none of us all will fall or shirk.
FLORA'S BIT
Flora, with wondrous feathers in her hat,
Rain-soaked, and limp, and feeling very flat,
With flowers of sorts in her full basket, sat,
Back to the railings, there by Charing Cross,
And cursed the weather and a blank day's loss.
"Wevver!" she cried, to P. C. E. 09,—
"Wevver, you calls it?—Your sort then, not mine!
I calls it blanky 'NO.' So there you are,—
Bit of Old Nick's worstest particular.
Wevver indeed! Not much, my little son,
It's just old London's nastiest kind of fun.
"Vi'lets, narcissus, primroses and daffs,—
See how they sits up in their beds an' laughs!
Buy, Pretty Ladies—for your next at 'ome!
Gents!—for the gells now—buy a pretty bloom!
"Gosh!—but them 'buses is a fair disgrace,
Squirting their dirty mud into one's face,
Robert, my son, you a'n't half worth your salt,
Or you'd arrest 'em for a blank assault!
"Primroses, narcissus, daffs and violets,—
First come is first served, and pick o' basket gets.
"Garn then and git! Ain't none o' you no good!
Cawn't spare a copper to'rds a pore gell's food.
Gives one the 'ump it does, to see you all go by,
An' me a-sittin' 'ere all day,
An' none o' you won't buy.
Vi'lets, narcissus,— … Blimy! Strike me dumb!
Garn! What's the good o' you?—lot o' dirty scum!
Silly blokes!—stony brokes!—I'm a-goin' 'ome!"